


don't lick your fingers when you turn the page

by defcontwo



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M, Underage Substance Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-16 01:30:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5808052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defcontwo/pseuds/defcontwo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not the sex that Jack misses most, although he’d be lying through his teeth if he said he didn’t miss that too. </p><p>It’s the small touches. Fingertips on the back of his elbow. An arm slung around Jack’s middle, because Kent never could reach his shoulders. A warm palm at the small of his back. Kent’s knee pressed close to his underneath the table during team dinners. </p><p>Or: Jack, in rehab, going cold turkey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't lick your fingers when you turn the page

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to sparklysplug for your patience and inspiration and stellar beta work, as per usual. You're the best. ♥ 
> 
> And OF COURSE, a huge thank you to Bo, for sparking this whole thing off in the first place.

It’s quiet, in rehab. 

Maybe Jack should’ve guessed that it would be, but it still takes him by surprise. 

The nurses murmur in low, soft French, and most days, the only real noise is the rattling of the wind against the panes, or music playing from someone’s room, or the ebb and flow of conversation during one of the many, many therapy sessions going on throughout the center. 

It’s really fucking quiet, and the quiet gives Jack a whole lot of time to think about all of the things he’s missing out on right now. 

Doesn’t want to think too hard on what he has, now, instead. The low, easy baritone of his doctor’s voice, asking him how he’s feeling. The faint scent of antiseptic that he can’t seem to get away from. The rasp in his mother’s voice as she pretends she hasn’t been crying. The wrinkles set deep in his father’s face that he knows are his fault. 

Instead, there could’ve been the NHL. The hard smacking noise of stick meeting puck. The roar of an arena. The taste of PB&J on the back of his tongue as he chews mindlessly, thoughts on nothing more than the game ahead. 

Kent. 

God, he misses Kent. It felt like too much, sometimes, like he was fit to bursting with whatever it was that lit up right inside of him when Kent was around. If only he could catch a break. If only he could get away, for a bit, draw in a breath and figure out who Jack Zimmermann was without the one-look classic, without the threads of fate so thoroughly intertwined that it could get hard to tell where he ended and Kent began. 

So, Jack got his wish, finally. Got it too late to realize that he wants to give it right back. And with as quiet as this place is, and for as much Kent was always talking, always making some kind of noise, Jack’s surprised to realize that Kent’s voice isn’t even the thing he misses most about him. 

Kent was always -- Kent was always touching him, somehow. 

Not just, God. Not just during sex, not just when they were fooling around in the back of Jack’s car or in the locker room at the arena after everyone else went home or in the basement at Kent’s billet. 

It’s not the sex that Jack misses most, although he’d be lying through his fucking teeth if he said he didn’t miss that too. 

It’s the small touches. Fingertips on the back of his elbow. An arm slung around Jack’s middle, because Kent never could reach his shoulders. A warm palm at the small of his back. Kent’s knee pressed close to his underneath the table during team dinners. 

That sort of thing didn’t come naturally to Jack, not really, but being around Kent made him want to try. Made him want to reach out and close the distance, for all that every time he did it, it felt like he gave a little more of himself away. Like anyone looking could see what they meant to each other through the arc of Jack’s arm slung around Kent’s shoulders. 

Jack sits cross-legged on his bed, and slowly, methodically, clenches and unclenches his fist. 

It doesn’t do him any good. Kent’s not here, and Jack -- Jack is at a loss for the lack of him.

  


It started out small. 

Most things do, Jack finds. Kent giving Jack a slap on the shoulder after a good practice and letting it linger, fingertips grazing sweaty skin in the locker room, is the same as one pill, and then two, and then three, is the same as the weight of Kent's legs thrown over Jack's lap in the middle of a grueling Mario Kart tournament. 

Pills and Kent; they're not one and the same, not even a little bit, and it's not fair to Kent to even try to compare the two, isn't fair to every time Kent's lips would thin out in disapproval at the clack-clack-clack of Jack's pill bottle rattling around in his backpack. Isn't fair to every time Kent sighed, and swore, and with no small amount of bitching, brushed Jack's hair away from his eyes when he took too much and drank too much, and threw up in some random stranger's bathroom. 

But these days, Jack doesn't know how to be fair; doesn't know if he ever did and all he knows is, he's locked up in some high class suburban clinic and going cold turkey in all kinds of ways he never asked for. 

He's finding that there's all different shades of desire, shades of what you can't live without and what you never should've been allowed to have in the first place. 

All things are good in moderation, or so the saying goes. 

He's trying to be a little more honest with himself, these days: there was never going to be any kind of moderation with Kent.

  


“Hey, Zimmermann, don’t forget -- you’re cleared to get a phone call at 6 today.” The morning nurse says, rapping lightly on the wooden door frame to his room. She looks down at her clipboard, and frowns. “From....Kent Parson?” 

Jack nods, and then, realizing that she expects some sort of a verbal response from him, mutters, “yeah, that’s right.” 

It’s been three days since the last family visit, and Jack can still remember the way his father had hovered, uncertain, before drawing Jack into a loose, barely-there hug, like he thought if he clung any tighter, Jack might snap in two. 

Jack tries to remember if he’s talked to much of anyone, lately, other than his counselor and Moira, the sixty-eight year old theater actress who sits next to him in group sessions, and comes up wanting. 

Papa would like Moira, probably, Moira with her sharp smile and her pronounced Boston accent, Moira who married a man from Quebec in the ‘70s and never got around to leaving. If nothing else, she’s a source of never-ending trivia on the Pacific Theater in WWII. 

Or, maybe not. Maybe that’s just Jack, and maybe he doesn’t know much of anything at all about what Papa is really like. 

Kent would love her, though, and Jack can just picture the way he’d flirt outrageously, and tease out all of her best stories. 

Jack wraps both arms around himself, tight as he can go, and quietly waits for the nurse to leave.

  


Their first line goaltender is sidelined because he's failing three fucking classes, and no one can turn a blind eye anymore. 

The next day, their best D-Man, Flea, wakes up with the flu, and then before anyone knows it, half the fucking team has it and they barely have a starting line up to send out for their next game. 

The result is brutal. 

6-1, and the only reason it's not a shut-out is Kent's desperate pass that he sends Jack's way right before skidding right into the boards, with thirty seconds on the clock in the first period, and a wrap-around goal that Jack almost dislocates his wrist to make happen. 

Jack has three chances to score in the second period, and he squanders every last fucking one of them. The Wildcats’ goaltender blocking every one of Jack's shots is all he sees when he closes his eyes after it’s over, so he leans into the hot spray from the shower, and prays for the stall to swallow him whole. 

The team gets dressed in silence. Press is still a new thing, here. It's the Q, sure, but they're only two months into the season, and there's not a lot you can say about a bunch of green kids still getting used to this level of competition. 

But Jack will have to say something, because he always has to say something; doesn't matter that he's 16, still, doesn't matter that he's not the captain, that there's not even an A on his chest. 

Last name starts with a Z, ends in an immermann, and if he's not at least a little responsible, who is? 

Jack leans back against the lockers, hard, and eyes the exit. From here, the door into the hallway looks too close and a thousand miles away, and Jack's hands itch for something to hold onto, for the pill bottle in his backpack, maybe, but he's already taken his pill for the day, and he's not supposed to take another until tomorrow morning. 

Kent turns the corner of the lockers, and drops his gym bag down to the ground with a thud. "Hey, Zimms," Kent murmurs, stepping in close, the steam from the shower making his cowlick curl down over his forehead, and Jack has to stop himself from reaching out, pressing it away and down. Instead, he snaps his head up, scans the locker room to make sure that they're alone in here, now, because he’s a tightly wound thread, and God knows Jack doesn’t want anyone else to see him like this. 

"Look, if Flea hadn't -- " 

"Don't," Jack interrupts, voice a little harder than he likes, and that's how he knows just how badly he fucked up here tonight. He almost closes his eyes, and then remembers the goalie, and the blocked shots, and stops himself. "Just, shut up for once, Parse, alright?" 

Kent moves fast, just like he does on the ice, and fists one hand into the collar of Jack's button-down, dragging Jack down to his level, and before he knows it, Kent's got one arm wrapped around him, and the other trapped between them. It's some parody of a hug, because there’s nothing soft about this; there’s no easy comfort in the way Kent’s bony wrist keeps jamming into Jack’s chest. 

But Jack gives as good as he gets, pressing forward, and when he grabs hold of the loose material at the small of Kent's back and clutches it tight enough to wrinkle, Kent lets out a low groan and presses his face into the crook of Jack's neck.

Jack's never really gotten it, before, never felt every inch of his skin buzz with the need to press into another's but right here, right now, he doesn’t even know how to stop.

  


“Heya, Jackie boy, rumor around the water cooler is that you’ve got a phone call today,” Moira says, dropping down next to him on the bench. They’re in the courtyard overlooking what’s probably meant to be a calming, healing garden. It’s getting into winter now, though, and the garden’s starting to curl over, turn brown, and anyways, this part of the clinic never gets enough sunlight, so no one ever really comes out here. 

Except for Jack, who’s spent the better part of the past hour nursing a cup of coffee. “News travels fast, huh,” Jack says, taking a sip of his now-cold coffee. 

“Yeah, well, there’s not much to talk about here unless you want to talk about yourself some more,” Moira says, nudging him in the side and tossing him an exaggerated, conspiratorial wink. 

“Pass,” Jack says, and Moira laughs. 

“You looking forward to it?” 

Jack shrugs. “What, talking about myself?” 

Moira clucks her tongue. “Your phone call, Jack. It’s not a girl, is it?” 

Jack inhales sharply, knuckles going white around the chipped blue ceramic of his mug. “No, uh. It’s not. Just, my friend, he’s. We played hockey together, that’s uh. That’s it.” 

Moira hums, and looks at him askance; Jack tries so hard not to grimace, but fails anyways. Crisse, he’s an idiot. Two months of therapy sessions carefully avoiding exactly this, and then he goes and blows it over his morning coffee. 

“Take a deep breath, Jack,” Moira says, “In and out, in and out,” and if there’s one thing rehab has done right, it’s how quickly he follows suit, the rhythm of the words taking him right out of it. “Trust me, I’m too old to give a shit about a young man’s secrets.” 

Jack raises a hand to rub at his chest, then blows out a deep breath. His pulse slows to a normal, steady beat, even though there’s still a small part of him that’s stuck halfway in between fight or flight. “Yeah, thanks.” 

“It’s a shame, though,” Moira continues. “Thought we’d gotten past the point where that’s something young kids go and try to kill themselves over.” 

Jack doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t correct her, because he’s not exactly sure if she’s wrong just yet. Most days, he’s pretty convinced that he didn’t do what he did on purpose. 

Other days, well. 

He hasn’t talked about it yet. Not with his parents, and not with his counselor, and God knows he and Kent never exactly sat down and worked out what they were to each other. They just. They just _were_ , and it was easy to tell himself that Kent was just another extension of hockey, that he only felt what he felt because everything was good with Kent, and everything that was good was hockey. 

He wants to separate out the two, but it’s like hitting a fucking brick wall every time he tries. 

“So, is he a looker?” Moira says, and she tosses him another wink, and he’d get annoyed, thrown off, but Jack’s known her long enough now to get that this is just how she tries to lighten the mood. “Your young man, I mean.” 

Today, he decides to let her. 

“Uhhhh,” Jack starts. He’s never, God. He doesn’t think he’s ever had a conversation like this before, but now that she’s said it, all Jack can picture is Kent, in his only good suit, collar and tie undone, looking up at Jack with a grin curling around the edges of his lips, and his hair falling into his eyes, as always. 

Moira just cackles. “I’m gonna take that as a yes.” 

Jack squirms in his seat, and feels himself flush. He was right; Kent would love her. “How about, uh. How about you? Do you have any phone calls coming up?” 

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, it occurs to Jack that he’s never once seen Moira have visitors, not the husband that he’s heard so many stories about, not any kids or grandkids. 

Moira smiles, a small, sad slip of a smile. “Not anyone left waiting for me out there, kiddo.” 

Jack’s stomach drops, instantly; he wishes he hadn’t asked. “I -- I’m sorry -- ”

“Don’t worry about it, Jacko,” Moira interrupts, voice brusque. She brings her hands out in front of her, and makes as if she’s dusting them off. “It’s all ancient history, you know? I’d rather keep on moving forward. There’s no use sitting around and crying over spilled milk.” 

Jack huffs, and wonders if he’ll ever have that kind of clarity. He wants to say yes, but he knows himself a little better than that. 

Moira shakes her head, and draws herself up, putting on that same old easy smile that Jack’s so used to seeing by now. It’s the first time he realizes that it might not be entirely real, but it’s not like he can’t relate to the need that put it there. Jack hunches down, and lets her take her time. 

“So,” Moira says, after a minute, “are you going to go visit your young man when you get out of here?” 

Jack shrugs. “I, uh. I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it.” 

It’s a week into November, now. It’ll be well into February by the time Jack can hop on a plane and go much of anywhere, realistically. But whenever he tries to think that far ahead, tries to wrap his mind around where he’ll be in three months, or six or nine, the only thing that comes up is a white static. 

Kent’s probably played a whole lot of hockey for the Aces, at this point, not that Jack knows all that much about it from in here. He lets his gaze slide over the screen whenever someone has a TV turned onto the latest game. He doesn’t want to think about hockey right now, doesn’t want to watch Kent sink puck after puck into the back of the net and think, _that should’ve been me_. 

It’s hot in Las Vegas, probably; the desert sun will bring out Kent’s freckles year-round in a way that Rimouski never could. 

Not that Jack would know; he’s never been. 

A bright anger surges low in his gut, sharp and directionless. His counselor tells him that he’s not a failure; that he hasn’t fucked anything up, not for himself and not for the people that he loves, not permanently. Jack likes to nod along, and make like he believes her. 

It’s easier that way. 

Jack closes his eyes, and tries to picture himself in Vegas. Tries to figure out what his place would be in Kent’s new life, and all he can see is every way it could go wrong.

  


“Welcome to makeout point, Jack Zimmermann,” Kent says, turning off the ignition in his pickup, but leaving the stereo on, Bruce Springsteen blaring tinnily from the speakers. “Congratulations. You’ve finally become a man.” 

“Huh,” Jack says, shrugging his shoulders, and feeling the heavy material of his prom night tux stiffen in the arms . “I thought that already happened three months ago on your basement couch.” 

It’s dark out, and hard to see even by the light of the moon high in the sky, but that doesn’t mean the tips of Kent’s ears didn’t just flush. Jack grins, a little too smugly, and Kent elbows him, lightly, in retaliation. 

“C’mon, smartypants,” Kent says, and maybe he’s trying to sound exasperated, but the dip in his voice tells a different story. “Get outta the fucking car, I’ve got something to show you.” 

They’re at a bluff overlooking the water, and even well into May, there’s a sharp, bitter chill to the salty sea air that blows right through them, but it’s too late now to go all the way back to his billet for any kind of a coat. The wind blows through Kent’s hair, making it stick up in just about every direction possible, and Jack can’t stop himself from reaching out a hand, and pressing it down, and away.

Kent blinks up at him, and it’s funny -- Kent’s been a little weird all night, a little bit off; never laughing hard enough at their teammate’s jokes and always just a split second too late for the next best chirp. Now, though, Kent takes a step closer, and then another, and there’s a clarity in the weight of his gaze, a purpose, so much like how he is out on the ice, and so different from how distracted he’d been the whole night in that crowded school gym. 

Kent holds out a hand. “C’mon, Zimms. I want to dance with my date.” 

“We’re going to dance to this?” Jack asks, but he’s already lacing his fingers through Kent’s, already letting Kent press closer, creating a space between them that’s nothing but warmth, and that familiar buzz that always runs through him whenever Kent is near. 

“You got a problem with the Boss, Zimms?” Kent murmurs, crowding up close, and pressing his face into Jack’s shoulder. 

The music goes in and out, keeps getting snatched away by the wind, but a good chunk of it comes through anyways, and what doesn’t, Kent fills in, humming low and soft. _At night I wake up with the sheets soaking wet and a freight train running through the middle of my head_. 

Jack’s pretty sure that he knows the feeling. 

They’re not dancing, so much as they’re swaying in a small, tight circle, but they’d spent the whole of prom sitting at a table in the back and drinking spiked punch, all while watching couples do exactly this, so maybe this is just how it’s supposed to go. 

“Not really what I thought we came out here for.” And it’s not -- it’s not what he wants to say, but whatever it is that he wants to say, he can’t put a name to, and every time he tries, the words stick in the back of his throat. 

“Nuh-uh, Zimms,” Kent says. “You know how the saying goes. Put out at prom, and you’re knocked up by graduation.” 

Jack laughs, and almost pulls away, thinks about pointing out the contradiction in Kent’s crack about becoming a man, but he’s comfortable like this, and the wind at his back isn’t exactly encouraging. “Who says that?” 

“My brother,” Kent says, “and you know, lots of people. According to him.” 

Jack’s never met Kent’s family. Wonders if he ever will, at this point, with graduation and the draft hurtling at them at breakneck speed, and the Parsons so far away, and scattered across the continent, at that. It puts a twist in his gut that’s equal parts yearning, and relief that he never has to worry about disappointing this entire family that he’s only ever known through second-hand stories. 

Jack hums. “Well, if your brother says it, it must be true.” 

Kent pokes Jack in the gut, right where he knows Jack is most ticklish. “I’ve got plans for after graduation, Zimmermann. Someone’s gotta go first in the draft, you know.” 

Jack blows out a breath, and tries not to let that familiar rising panic take over. He left his bottle of pills at home, and anyways, he took a couple before heading out tonight, let them mix with the cheap vodka that got poured into the punch, loosening out the unease that he usually feels at parties. He thought he’d be set for the night. Refuses to be anything but that. 

Jack pulls Kent in closer, buries his face in the crown of Kent’s head, and doesn’t say anything at all.

  


Moira gets up, goes inside. Jack sits there, lets his coffee get colder, and tries not to reach out for the warmth of a hand that’s not there.

  


“Ugh,” Kent groans, and Jack doesn’t have to open his eyes to know that the faint rustling sound coming from his left is Kent trying to kick all the sheets down and off the bed. The A/C is on the fritz, and the tinny fan circling in the corner of Jack’s childhood bedroom barely does much of anything; Jack’s sticking to the sheets, to Kent, to himself. 

“Remember that time I said I hated winter? I take it back. I didn’t mean it at all.” 

Jack lets out a low, hoarse huff of a laugh, mouth dry after a full night’s sleep. It’s too bad the glass of water on Jack’s nightstand is way too far away right this second. “You’re so full of shit, Parse.” 

Jack’s got too many memories packed away, mental images of Kent at six in the morning, swearing up a storm and shivering in his over-sized parka, nose red from the cold, to believe that. 

And if Kent really minded the heat, he wouldn’t be plastered across Jack’s back, one arm thrown over Jack’s middle, and face buried into Jack’s shoulder. 

Almost as if to prove the point, Kent shifts closer, tangling their feet together, and grazes his teeth across the skin at the nape of Jack’s neck. “Don’t want t’hear it, Zimmermann.” 

Jack rolls over to face Kent, and Kent moves with him, rearranges himself, and winds up sprawled half across Jack’s chest. They really should set an alarm; Kent’s supposed to be camped out in a guest room down the hall and Papa will be up early, like always. 

But they’re in that sleep-weighted cross-section between overheated and dead-tired that means they won’t move for hours unless someone makes them. Crisse, it really is fucking hot in here. 

“Go back to sleep, Kenny.”

  


Jack hears a lot about moderation, these days. Hears a lot about how every patient is different, but one thing that always stays the same is that he needs to figure out what works for himself, needs to figure out what to keep and what to cut out altogether. 

How he needs to move forward, how he needs to learn how to live in this world, how he needs to learn how to want to. 

There’s a To-Do list written on a faded, crinkled piece of paper tucked into Jack’s sweatshirt pocket that he carries around everywhere, and it goes a little like this: 

Sleep more. Learn his breathing exercises by heart. Be kinder to himself; give the unkind voices in the corner of his mind less of a chance to grab a solid foothold. Swap out valium for the less addictive zoloft, and remember to tell himself that at the end of the day, the recommended dose is all he needs.

It’s not easy. Jack wishes it were easier, somehow. Recovery is a winding path, filled with shades of greys, or so his counselor says, and Jack is so, so tired of second-guessing himself. 

Jack closes his eyes, and pictures a fork in the road, with two paths splitting off in opposite directions. Wants to set off down on one, and take it all the way to the end, just to know that he can.

  


First draft pick goes to the Las Vegas Aces; second draft pick goes to the Seattle Schooners. Las Vegas or Seattle. Seattle or Las Vegas. Which do you like better? 

“Well, you know,” Kent always says, leaning back in his chair during interviews, and letting a slow, confident grin ease its way across his face, “I like sunshine. I like coffee, too. Can’t complain much either way.” 

He says it the same way, every time, like he’s never going to get tired of the question. 

Jack’s pretty sure that if he has to hear it one more time, he’ll throw up on the next interviewer. 

Jack leans against the wall in a bright, linoleum studio hallway and fiddles with the end of his navy blue tie. It’s the same one that he’s worn for every fucking one of these things, and he fantasizes, briefly, about tearing it off and throwing it in a garbage can when this is all over. 

“Hey, Zimms,” Kent says, striding down the hallway to meet him, late as always, and wearing the same suit that he wore to prom, of all fucking things. “Sorry, you know. Traffic. Got kinda lost. ” 

“Toronto isn’t as complicated as you keep trying to pretend it is,” Jack says, all practiced long-suffering. He takes a deep breath, in and out, and wishes that every second of his life didn’t feel like playing a part these days. 

“Hey,” Kent says, quieter and closer, now, and it’s a lucky thing that this hallway is dead empty when just minutes before it was filled with tech personnel running to and fro. “You okay, man?” 

No, Jack thinks. 

“Yeah, I’m alright,” he says, and shakes himself, smiles and knows from the way Kent frowns that it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Once more unto the breach, and all that.” 

“Look on the bright side, huh?” Kent says, reaching out to cup Jack’s elbow, steadying him. “We only have to get through one more day of this.” 

The point of contact is small; Kent’s index and middle finger is pressed just under Jack’s elbow, barely noticeable through the thick material of his interview suit. Jack leans into it, and wishes it could be enough.

  


Jacks pads his way down the hallway, towards the reception desk. Behind it, the late shift nurse is leaning impatiently against the wall, holding the phone in one hand, and clicking a ball point pen in the other. She’s got two kids at home, a boy and a girl, and she’s got better things to do than play receptionist to some rich kid druggie fuck up. She doesn’t say it, but Jack can see it in the set of her shoulders, in the way she shoves the phone at him, clicking the pen one last time, and then walking away. 

It took him two months here to earn this privilege, and now that he’s standing here, holding the phone up to his ear, Jack’s still not sure if someone shouldn’t come up out of nowhere and snatch it right out of his hands. 

His fingers shake, so he grips them real tight around the phone cord, and draws in a breath, one, two three. “Hey.” 

There’s a sharp intake on the other end, followed by a loud rustling sound, and then, “hey, Zimms.” 

Jack sags into the wall. “Uh. Hi.” Jack can just picture Kent, how he’s all slouch whenever he’s on the phone, head tipped back and feet propped up on the nearest flat surface. His hair was getting too long in the back, the last time Jack saw him. Too long in the front, too, but then again, it always was. 

Kent’s probably gotten it cut, since. Jack makes a private bet with himself, two bucks and a container of jello that he can’t tangle his fingers in the hair at the nape of Kent’s neck anymore. Not the way he did the morning before the draft, Kent’s leg draped over his hip, his elbow digging into Jack’s side, as Kent kissed him slow and sweet, like he so often wasn’t. 

“You still there, Zimms?” 

Jack shakes himself. What the fuck does it matter how long Kent’s hair has gotten? 

“Yeah, uh. I’m still here. How, uh. How’ve you been?” 

Kent huffs, and Jack can’t tell if it’s from laughter or annoyance, or both. Probably both. That sounds about right. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” 

Jack frowns, and forgets for a moment that Kent can’t see it. God, but he’s sick and fucking tired of talking about himself. “I’m alright. You know, uh. Not much to report on in here. Lots of free time. I think, uh. I feel like I’ve slept more in the past few months that I have in the past few years.” Jack pauses, remembering all of those sleepless nights spent squished up tight in Kent’s twin, all while Kent slept on, oblivious. 

Christ. He doesn’t want Kent to have to know that shit. 

Jack blows out a breath, and switches tack. “The girl in the room two doors down from me is always singing that song you like, uh, you know, the one about milkshakes.” 

That shakes another huff out of Kent, but this time, Jack doesn’t have to guess at it. He likes startling a laugh out of Kent, likes it because it always comes out as more of a giggle, so at odds with the rest of him. Kent tries to hide it, sometimes, tries to bury that giggle in the crook of his arm, and there’s a tugging in the pit of Jack’s stomach that just _aches_. 

“Jesus, Jack. You know that song’s not actually about milkshakes, right?” 

“I figured,” Jack says, aiming for dry, because he can try to play the straight man to Kent’s comedian, he’s good at that, God knows he’s got enough practice at it. 

“Not that either one of us would know a whole lot about that, huh?” Kent says, and even through the shitty connection, it’s impossible to miss the way his voice dips low and familiar. 

Jack swallows hard. “Uh. Yeah.” 

“I’ve got a pretty sweet setup over here, you know,” Kent says. “Sharing with another rookie, ‘course, but his sister’s got an apartment in the city, so he’s never around. Bed’s a lot bigger than that shitty twin at your billet, too. You should come visit, when you get out.” 

Jack’s struck with the strength of two impulses; one, to slam down the phone and walk away and try to forget that there was a time in his life when Kent Parson, with the slope of his neck, and the daring curl in his lips, ever taught Jack what it was to want something that wasn’t the fucking Stanley Cup. 

And two, to walk right out of this clinic, buy a ticket, and hop on a plane to Las Vegas. 

Instead, Jack tangles his fingers further into the winding cord of the phone, and takes another breath, one, two, three. One, two, three. 

One. Two. Three. 

“Jack?” Kent says. “C’mon, what do you say?” 

“I don’t know, Kenny,” Jack says, and then winces. He says that a lot, these days. 

I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know. 

But, he doesn’t. He doesn’t know shit, anymore. 

There are 2,600 miles between Montreal and Las Vegas, and as the silence stretches between them, Jack imagines he can feel every inch of every one of those miles. 

He closes his eyes, and he doesn’t even know what Kent fucking looks like anymore. 

“Maybe,” Jack says, but it tastes like a lie in the back of his throat as soon as the words are coming out of his mouth. 

“Yeah, okay,” Kent says, and there’s a hard, bitter edge to his words that Jack wants to apologize for but not as much as he wants to ask, _what the fuck do you have to be bitter about?_

Jack bites down on the words at the last minute, because he’s stretched tight around the edges, and he aches, and he doesn’t want to fight right now. 

“Can I….can I give you my new number? So you can call?” 

“Sure,” Jack says, picking up a pen from the desk, and clicking it open, just like the late shift nurse kept doing. “Go ahead.” 

There’s a pad of post-it notes sitting right in front of him. Jack tears one off the top, and places it closer, tapping the end of the pen against the desk in a steady rat-tat-tat. 

Kent rattles off a list of numbers, and then lets out a low, blustery sigh that echoes through the receiver. “Sorry, I’m still trying to remember it myself. Did you get all that?” 

Jack looks down. There’s nothing written on the post-it. He clicks off the pen, and sets it aside. “Yeah, I got it.” 

“Cool,” Kent says, “That’s. Okay, cool. I’ll, uh. Look, I gotta go, I’ve got another practice session in an hour but think about what I said, alright?” 

“Yeah,” Jack says, picking up the pen, and clicking it open again. Is it too late to change his mind? He wants it to be, but. 

But maybe he’d like to follow through on a decision he’s made for once in his fucking life. 

“I miss you, Zimms,” Kent says, soft and sweet, just like that last good morning kiss, and Jack nearly tears the phone cord out of the wall he tugs on it so hard. 

“I miss you too, Kenny,” Jack says, because God, if there’s one thing he knows for certain, it’s that. 

Then he hangs up. 

Jack clicks the pen closed one last time, sets it down, and walks away.


End file.
